


Ross Kemp: On Choirs, Part 3

by BolgMitchell808



Category: EastEnders, Power Rangers
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29072910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BolgMitchell808/pseuds/BolgMitchell808
Kudos: 1





	Ross Kemp: On Choirs, Part 3

Ross Kemp: On Choirs Saga, Part 3 

The Rangers escort him a short distance before one of them calls to prepare for teleportation. Ross can’t help but release his confusion and anger at being restrained and arrested by the super-futuristic ninja-football-cops.

“Get your filthy hands off me you rotten slags the lot o’ ya!” He struggles against them but they carry him away as though light as a feather. “Where are you fackin’ taking me?!” There’s a practised, nonchalant silence from his captors for a few moments until finally one of them speaks up. The blue one. 

“Mr Piss Kemp, we are arresting you on suspicion of making a terrible documentary about bizarre pseudo-choirs and intimidating the elderly. We are taking you to our gaffer, Zordon Strachan, who will decide your fate.” No emotion exudes from this expert, no-nonsense space-fighter. 

“Firstly, my name is Ross. Secondly, Zordon Strachan? Wasn’t he the former Celtic manager?!” He looks down in dismay. “Fack me this is confusing....” before he can gather any further thoughts on the matter, he is then beamed up, along with the Rangers, to Ibrox Stadium, which is now on the moon for some reason. 

The sensation of teleportation is intense for Ross, he feels stretched as though his body was being warped by the gravitational disparity near the event horizon of a black hole. Flashes of light burst through him until, in an instant, he appears to be on the Ibrox Stadium Moon Base. Most fictional moon-related stories or films tend to overlook the proportional gravitational difference the moon has compared to Earth (the moon base on Ad Astra, for instance). And so will this one. The moon arbitrarily has the same gravity as Earth. (Again, for a third time, sue me.) Anyway. The reanimation of Kemp’s physical form post-teleportation leaves him feeling queasy and unwell. But then he looks down and notices the belt line of his jeans is now up to his chest. The Rangers have performed the most almighty wedgie on him, mid-space travel. 

“Soz, Kemp,” says one of the Rangers. “It’s tradition.” No further explanation is given. 

“Fair enough,” he replies, about six octaves higher in pitch than his usual cockney drone. 

-

In the main chamber, Alpha is tucking into a toasted foot-long meatball marinara sandwich delivered by Subway whilst big ginger Zordon Strachan sleeps in his gigantic fish tank; his head massive and worryingly disproportionally larger than his tiny body. On closer inspection, one could be fooled into thinking Alpha looked a bit like Ally McCoist with a mop bucket on his head. But it isn’t him, so we’ll leave it at that. (But he does look ALOT like him.) Upon noticing the arrival of the Rangers just outside the entrance to the main chamber with their belligerent fugitive, Alpha hurriedly slides his sandwich into a drawer and disguises all evidence of its existence, as he knows the Rangers will just chastise him about not keeping up with his Slimming World commitments. He maintained last week, after all, and received a right bollocking in group from his weight-loss overlord Sandra for not sticking to the speed food plan he set for himself the week before. 

“Aye-aye-aye-aye-aye,” he bids to the Rangers as they enter in his dry, monotone Glaswegian accent. Then he says something that no one understands before finishing with the word “eh?” 

They nod, half-pretending to have understood and half-ignoring him, before continuing on to present the apprehended suspect to Mega-Manager Zordon Strachan. 

“Gaffer, this is one Mr Toss Kemp, the one you asked us to bring here.” Zordon Strachan remains asleep. Kemp winces at the childish and clearly non-accidental mispronunciation of his name. “Hang on a minute....” the Ranger glances about the room, sniffing. “Is that a.... meatball marinara sandwich I can smell?” He looks straight at Alpha, who is picking at his fingers and looking to the ground, clearly ashamed. Just as the Ranger goes to begin his self-righteous diatribe, a voice booms suddenly and startles all.

“AHHHHHHHHH!!!!” Zordon Strachan screams and all jump in fright. Then Zordon Strachan laughs. “Hahaha, scared the shite out all of ye there, dint ah?! Nay mind, ye daft wee cloons. Got tae get ya laughs when ye can when ya cooped up in a fockin’ fush tank forever, eh? First of all, Alpha wus absolutely demolishing that meatball marinara sandwich before ye came in dragging that prick with you’s. Guilty as fockin’ charged, eh? Honestly Alpha, ye cannae go round eatin’ that shite and expect tae get bonnie results on tha scales, eh wee lad? Mathematically impossible son.” Sadly, Alpha responds.

“Aye-aye-aye...”

“Shut tha fuck up wi’ that untenable catchphrase will ye!” Zordon Strachan interrupts. “Ah wus tryina get some kip before you’s burst in here and turned ma control centre into ye own personal fockin’ restaurant. I have tha mind to sack your unprofessional arse, ye wee shite.” 

“I’m really sorry!” Ross shouts, gaining everyone’s attention. His voice grows gentle and fearful again. “Why... am I here?” Zordon Strachan’s face flushes a red that’s only a few shades off matching the colour of his hair. 

“Well, this wee cheeky, steaming great bawbag is keen, eh?! Cannae wait can you’s? Aye, ah suppose ah can finish this business at a later date, fair enuff. Ah have found you’s guilty of being a colossal shitehooss pal, isnae two ways about it. Ah sentence you’s to a game of chance fir ye life. Lose, ya die. Win, ye get tae go back to Earth tae help a wee mystery shopping company try an’ figure out why the British high street is dying.” Ross gulps, unsure of which is worse. At least living gives him a chance. 

“Orwight, what’s this game?” Ross straightens himself up, preparing himself to take on the challenge laid before him.

“I like to call tha game: ‘guess the name of my wee pet goat.’ Whereby, ye need to guess, correctly, the name of ma wee pet goat. Get it wrong, an’ ya fockin’ shredded wheat, pal.” Ross is heavily confused. He frowns.

“What, so I guess the name of your goat? That’s it?” 

“Aye son.” There is silence for a moment, as Ross waits for him to elaborate. Although, he doesn’t. 

“So are there any further rules...” but Ross is interrupted with a furious Zordon Strachan.

“IF YE CONTINUE TAE DISRESPECT MA WEE PET GOAT WUTH YE INCESSANT ATTEMPTS TO FURTHER COMPLICATE MA GAME OF CHANCE! AH WILL BE FORCED TAE ACCEPT NO ANSWER AS FORFEIT AND BLEND YOU’S INTAE A FOCKIN’ PASTE WEE SON!” Ross has never seen such rage. “DUNNAE TEST MA PATIENCE FURTHER!”

“Okay! I’m sorry, please. Just give me a moment.” Ross composes himself once more. A goat slowly struts across the control centre floor before screaming like a deranged man. Zordon Strachan’s eyes beam like fireballs at Kemp, awaiting his attempt. 

“His name is....”

Dun dun, dun dun dun dudahdudah! 

To be continued.....


End file.
